Assassin's Creed 3: Unity
by DeusExfreak
Summary: Yes, you read the title right. A sequel to "Assassin's Creed: Remembrance", and the second installment in my dream reboot of the everything after AC1. A nearly complete retelling of Unity more faithful to the visions of the original AC and real Templar/Masonic conspiracy theories. Those who did not read Remembrance should have little trouble catching up. Constructive crit welcome.
1. Author's Foreword

Hello. How to explain this story...many years ago, I wrote "Assassins Creed: Remembrance." The first Assassin's Creed was magical to me, and I was very disappointed with how AC2 continued the story, so I decided to reboot everything after the first game. In other words, everything that happened in the first game was canon, everything else was up to me. Basically, I rewrote Assassin's Creed 2.

Now, I am writing the third installment in my dream Assassin's Creed series, lightly based off of Assassin's Creed Unity. In other words, characters will be reused, but the plot will be different, and so will their relationships. François is no longer Elise's father, for example. Forget everything you know about everyone's allegiances too.

Here's what you need to know about Assassin's Creed: Remembrance.

-Desmond was not being held in Italy, but rather in the United States.

-The satellite is still the dooms day plot. None of that exploding sun stuff.

-Ezio took the Apple of Eden and buried it on the bank of the Tiber River.

-The Assassins and Templars no longer existed before the Hashashin and Knights Templar. AC1 was an origin story of the conflict.

I think that covers it. This fic is a bit of wish fulfillment fantasy for me, so at times it may appear gamey. For example, I wanted to keep the final-words/confessions/memory-corridors whatever the heck they are called, where the protagonist has a heart to heart with his/her slain enemy. However, I've tried to integrate them into the world as realistically has possible. I also want it to be an entertaining novel.


	2. Buried Treasure (Modern Times)

Three Assassins dug through the sloppy, muddy river bank in the dead Roman midnight. Lucy Stillman kept watch.

Rebecca's shovel hit something solid.

"Wait! I think that's it!" she said excitedly.

Desmond's spirits perked! He was worried they would not find it at all.

"Let me see," Shaun said, taking out a pocket flash light.

They could only see a sliver, but it indeed looked metallic. A euphoric relief flowed into Desmond.

Excitedly, they began digging around the artifact. To think, Ezio had hidden it more than half a millenium ago.

More and more of the historic artifact became unobscured. To see it for real, arcane engravings and all, was remarkable.

Eventually, Rebecca lifted it up with her shovel. The most powerful thing in the world, muddy and uncovered by a few scrappy twenty-somethings.

"Give me it," Lucy demanded. For a couple of seconds Desmond wondered if he might witness some sort powerplay, but Rebecca pulled it inwards, and as promptly as Lucy took it, she put it in the brown duffle bag at her side. Maybe being among the Templars gave her the proper aversion to its evil.

"Pile the dirt back on!" she said, commanding as always. "We can't leave any traces!"

They slopped the muck back on the hole, and Desmond realized he had finally been something useful. It was not quite redemption, but it was a start. They now had the means to cancel out Abstergo's signal (or so Lucy theorized), if they could not stop them from launching their satellite. Though that thought reminded Desmond of the dauntingness of the task ahead. The Assassin Order was almost eradicated, and yet they had 'at least half a dozen' Pieces of Eden to beat the Templars to. From what he remembered of the map, it seemed like a lot more.

Regardless, this was a major hurtle.

Desmond lapped on the final mound of muck.

"C'mon everyone, we can't waste time, we need to get back in the van."

"So where are we going?" Desmond asked as they tracked back through the mud. Their headquarters in the States was no longer an option.

"Paris," Shaun said. "That's where our nearest surviving cells is, and Abstergo has an office in the area."

"That should put us right between the location of two of the Pieces of Eden your memories revealed," Lucy added. "We probably won't stay there for long."

"So are we flying again or..."

"Flying is dangerous, Desmond," Shaun said. "Generally we like to avoid commercial air travel."

"Safest form of travel in the world..."


	3. De Ja Vu (Modern Times)

They had been driving through the night. Desmond had been too full of adrenaline to sleep, and had stayed awake through the night. They were now deep in France, and it was around noon. Although Desmond was getting his first tour of Europe, the further into the country they had gone, the more Desmond got a sense of De Ja Vu. He had a strong suspicion one of his ancestors lived here.

The vehicle halted and parked.

"Alright," said Shaun. "This is our destination. I'm sure you're all eager to stretch your legs."

He certainly was. Desmond was on the side of the side walk. He opened the door, swiveled, lept from the van, when suddenly the feeling of De Ja Vu became overwhelming.

For flash, all the pedestrians became something else: Old-fashion. Frillier. Fancier. Women in poofy dresses and-

"Are you okay?" Lucy said.

The modern world came back.

"Yeah I just...yeah."

"It should be just a little further down this street, past that barber shop," Shaun said.

They began walking through the bustling modern streets, past pedestrians in modern garb: polo-shirts, polar fleeses, plad. But Desmond felt uneasy. He could feel the old world calling to him.

An obelisk like structure in the distance caught his eye, and then the old world washed over him again, this time engulfing him completely.


	4. Bernard René Jourdan (1789)

"This," said a man in a dark coat and top-hat, François de la Serre. "This provides us with an opportunity! Bernard's troops will be distracted. He will be easier to strike than ever. Make him pay for the trouble he has caused our order, and free our people!"

"Right, it'll be my honor," the female firebrand said.

The ugly building, the symbol of oppression, was designed almost exclusively to keep intruders out and prisoners in, but Élise knew there was a chink in every armor. Of course, the chaos also opened the front entrance, but even now a direct assault seemed foolish.

She began surveying the exterior, walking along the guard rail. The mote below was dry, which was good, of course, though she knew how to swim. She balanced her pace, quick footed but not running. Shouts and shots at the front gate meant death and carnage, but unknown to everyone but her and her master, also meant opportunity.

She saw the chink in the armor, something only one trained in the ways of an Assassin would spot: a broken piece of wall that formed giant stairs. From there she just needed to grab and transverse a few ledges, and there was a window with its grate missing she could enter through.

Her path was crystal clear.

Vaulting over the rail and dropping down ledge by ledge, she made her way to the grimy base of the dry mote.

The giant's staircase awaited her.

She pulled and lept and pulled her way up. A few shallow ledges provided the rest of her path. She channeled the great strength of fingers as she gripped the unintended support.

She found herself at the precipice of the opened window.

She vaulted herself into the prison, finding concealment in a small indent in the hallway which housed the window. She was across from an empty cell. It was a dingy dungeon, with stray straw, grounded candles, and dangling chains, even this high above the ground.

In one direction, the hallway ended with a door. She peered down the other.

There was one lonely guard, with his back towards her. Likely almost the entire guard staff had been called to deal with the chaos below. The man would be an unfortunate casualty in her path.

She began forward with honed foot falls. The shouts and shots out front provided a small quilt of camouflage to her footsteps, but she had the solid stone floor to thank above all else.

With shallow breaths, she was close enough behind the poor soul to see his neck vertebrae.

He would die.

With one deft motion, she covered his mouth and stabbed through his neck.

His screams were hot against her hand before he faded into rest, and she gently set body down. His fluids leaked liberally on the cobblestone floor.

There was no one else in the hallway ahead, though if someone were to approach, there were plenty of barrels and shelves to hide behind.

She took out her pistol, her weapon for surprise, emergency self-defense, and began advancing, eyes and ears keen. The prison seemed nearly empty. She did not yet see a single cell filled.

She could hear the commotion from below through a window at the front. She was starting to distinguish someone shouting from inside the building to the crowd below. Could that be Bernard?

Élise could not make out the words, but he seemed to be either barking orders or trying to negotiate. A distracted adversary was always nice.

Getting to the end of the corridor, she found herself in room which seemed to be the messhall, though it was only marginally more inviting than the rest of the prison. But she believed she saw her target. He was leaning out the window, shouting something, flanked by two of his troopers.

She holstered her pistol, planning to make quick work of the three with her hidden blades.

With silent foot falls, the deadly predator snuck up behind them. She would take out his guards first, then him.

Close enough to see the hairs on their heads, she was ready to attack.

She stabbed both subordinates in their necks, jolting them out of their reality and into their doom. She removed her right blade just as Bernard turned around to see meet her eyes. She punched under-handed into his belly.

Abdomen pierced, he crumbled to the floor.

The defeated marquis looked up at her with weary eyes.

"Rest now, Jourdan. The outcome of this battle is in our hands now, not yours."

He snorted, the dark spot on his fancy clothing getting ever bigger. "So this is what I've been reduced to. Killed by a common woman in my own fortress."

"The common people are stronger than you think. We'll rise back up and take what's ours."

"Classic arrogance. Everyone thinks they can bear the weight of the crown...with perfect efficacy and righteousness. But practice always proves them wrong."

"We could hardly do worse the aristocrats of the today."

"We'll see about that," The old man said with his final breath. His gaze froze, and he joined his two underlings in eternal silence.


	5. Enemies of the State (1789)

"You ther-"

Her pistol bucked and roared, and the musket ball ripped into the poor guard's chest. The sound of the shot echoed residually as he fell his knees, face shocked.

"Élise...is that you?" Martin said from inside his cell. He was far from his glory days: sweat-stained rags, tousled hair, and his previously clean-shaved face had become a scruffy beard.

"That's right. This time the princess rescues the knight from the tower."

She jogged over and reached for the keyring she had taken from Bernard-René Jourdan.

"What's going on out there?"

"The people are rising up. This morning they stormed the Hôtel des Invalides, acquired hundreds of weapons. No powder to fire them though, I'm afraid, but there should be plenty in this building."

The gate clicked opened, and Martin quickly looted the dead man's body for his weapon.

"Where's Denis?" Élise asked.

"Cell at the far end of the hall," he said.

"Excellent, let's go."

Martin was little more than an errand boy, but Denis was one of François' most trusted men. Their arrests had shaken up François deeply. Their honor had been avenged, now to get them to safety.

Élise asked, "So, did they ever tell your the charges?"

"Spying for enemies of the state."

Charges these days were often a joke, but that one was actually true enough.

They came to Denis' cell, and saw him waiting at the bars, but he was a jarring sight: he looked severely beaten, a bruise on his neck right at the end of his long, wavy hair, and a large purple circle around his blood-shot right eye.

"Élise. Good. Get me out of here."

"Are you okay, Monsieur?"

"I'm fine...now. Those royalist scum...they...nevermind. Get me out."


	6. Turncoats (1789)

After wading through the biosterous crowd who had commandeered the fortress, and stepping over several bodies, the trio saw the lowered draw bridge. François de la Serra was waiting for them.

Élise took out the bloodied hankercheif.

"Bernard-René Jourdan is dead," she said.

"Well done, Élise," François said. "You've done our order proud!"

Something was going on behind him. Columns of soldiers marching towards them, two cannons at the forefront. "Reinforcements," Élise said. "I think we should go now."

"Ah, no. This is another opportunity, my dear girl."

François turned and stood with steely confidence as the column of blue suits advanced. Élise kept her resolve but her eyes darted nervously around for escape routes. What was he planning? With his decades of experience in leadership, he must have known what he was doing, but Élise could not help but feel uneasy.

As the troops got closer, their horse-backed commander finally spoke.

"You there, in the hat. Have you ordained yourself to speak for these violent rabble? We will accept nothing short of unconditional surrender."

"Commander, I recognize the value of order in any society," François said, stepping forward. "But ask yourself-"

He took a metal ball out from his coat: The Apple of Eden. The Assassins, from whom she had defected, had long suspected the Templars had found a replacement. "How can one call himself a soldier when he is complicit to the injustices of the world."

The commander stared, caught under its spell. As far she could tell, so was every other soldier on the front line. "You've dedicated yourself to protecting France's people: From highwaymen, from thieves, from mad cut throats...from invaders and usurpers. Can you not see these people here simply want to do the same?"

He continued, "These cut throats may wear noble garb. These thieves may present themselves in broad daylight. And the usurper of the Estates-General may be the highest man in the land. But their crimes remain their same."

"So I ask you. Will you join the good citizens of France, or will you join the criminals?"

The commander retained his entrance expression, but in a couple of seconds looked back at his soldiers.

"Men, he's right! Yesterday we fought for the king. Today, we fight for the future of France!"

The crowd of soldiers, many likely with minds still their own, raised their arms and roared.


	7. Flaming Sword (1789)

"Well," Martin said with an amused huff. "All this should send a message to the royalists."

"The Bastille in the hands of the people, a battalion of gardes françaises has switched sides, I suspect King Louis is shaking in his boots right now," the former Assassin said.

"Yes, a message to the royalists. That reminds me, Élise, I have one more task for you before you retire for today. Jacques de Flesselles, the provost of the merchants. He agreed to help this revolt. He broke his promise. He needs to be punished."

"You mean killed," Élise said coldly, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. He agreed to provide the location of weapon stores. He lied to the us."

"Sounds like as good a reason as any to want a man dead. Do you know his present location?"

"Start at the Hôtel de Ville. I am going to return to the chateau and inform Timothee of the good news."

"It will be my honor, Grand Master. It is great to finally make such a difference."

She and the other three parted ways.

For so long, Élise had begged her Assassin masters to use their powers of deathcraft to fight for the people of France, but they had rebuked her again and again, told her it was not their war. So she had left them for the Templars, and the Templars had manifested their good will with the strength of a thousand fireworks this day.

She had even seen the infamous Apple of Eden in action. Grand Master François had used it, but not to enslave mankind, simply to give the powers that were a small push in favor of the people.

Was that worse than the Assassin method of warding off tyranny and war, ending lives?

She could feel her decision to betray vindicated in full. It had hurt to leave her family, but she had shed her shackles, shed the veil the Assassins had put over her eyes, and become a flaming sword for justice.

The gritty city streets were now crisp with the air of revolution. She strutted to the Hôtel de Ville with a swagger.


	8. Jacques de Flesselles (1789)

Ahead was the Hôtel de Ville, the town hall of Paris. It's absurdly intricate architecture was a testament to the state of France: attention to the petty and fanciful for the elite while the peasants starved. There was already a mob forming in a 'u' around one of its doors, though, which Élise found intriguing. She approached. They carried pitch forms, hoes, and a few even carried muskets.

She began to squirm her way through the grimy crowd. She did not quite look like a peasant, but she was a sister in their cause, and certainly bringing the best weapons.

There was her mark, Jacques de Flesselles, clad in a blue and gold coat and powdered wig, two young soldiers pointing muskets in opposite direction to stave off the peasants. He had a clear path to the door, the rioters forming a horse-shoe, rather than a circle. However, Élise guessed it was locked, and the others inside were not going to risk opening the doors to let him. The once-mighty were too afraid to even protect their own.

She knew the dilemma in the poor soldiers' minds: the people around them were threatening, but as soon as they fired their muskets they would become vulnerable and the people emboldened. The rioters had a similar dilemma, though. The first one to attack would almost certainly be killed.

She was closer to the soldier facing the opposite side of the crowd. She saw an opportunity, a trick she had been taught in her last year of Assassin training. She would be the one to draw first blood.

She watched the further soldier, who surveyed her side of the horse-shoe. His gaze and musket point tip darted sporadically across the crowd, staying at one point for no more than a second. When it was furthest from her, she pledged, she would thrust herself into the danger. Though it took remarkable and unfettered discipline to-

Now!

She ran into the eye of the storm, and after a quarter second of vulnerability grabbed the nearer soldier by the neck, rotating him, and taking out her pistol.

The other guard fired into her meat shield. She felt the grotesque impact of the musket ball against him and then fired her pistol. It missed Jacques but took down the other guard.

She immediately let the heavy body drop disgracefully against the ground, dropped her pistol, and pounced on her mark, stabbing him.

It had been a marvelous display, turning centuries of honed Assassin wisdom into a deft show of deathcraft in front of masses hungry for freedom and justice.

Withdrawing her now bloodied blade, the mighty noble was now lying upon the dirty city streets, bleeding onto the cobble stone.

"Why did you betray us, Jacques?" she asked.

"Betray you? I'm no traitor," the defeated man said. "That's why I lay here dying. Your rabble tried to bully me into betraying my kind, and I was courageous enough to refuse."

Courageous? The audacity. He sided with the self-pampered aristocracy, those who bribed men like him out of morals.

"You may not have betrayed your king, but you betrayed the people of France, who starve while the nobles feast, all as our nation spirals into deeper debt."

"I've been in both worlds," he retorted from his dirty place on the ground. "I was not born into nobility. How could I betray those who gave me my place in high society?"

"You were never a peasant, Jacques. You know only one."

"No. You do."

With those words, he let out a final sigh and his eyes froze, the cobble stone around him now thoroughly crimson. She took out a handkerchief, and wiped his blood upon it.

The crowd around cheered. Élise was proud of her display. Her mentor would have been proud, if she were still fighting on his side.

Élise stood and walked back through the onlookers, who rushed eagerly to have their way with the body. She was not a fan of corpse desecration, but she knew she could muster no proper argument to dissuade them. It was an ugly thing, but the harder one tugged at a bow, the harder the arrow would fly in the opposite direction.

She was going to head back to the chateau. What a day it had been. The tides had shifted with the power of a hundred moons. She had more than earned some rest. France would never be the same.

She wondered if Grand Master Francois would still be there when she returned. It was not his permanent residence, as Grand Master he simply made frequent stops.


	9. Homecoming (1789)

The chateau was a symbol of Parisian wealth and beauty, and Élise's place of residence since shortly after defecting from the Assassin Order. Passing through the beautifully groomed front gardens and passing by the guards, Élise knew she would spend the rest of the evening winding down, she had more than earned it. She had seen her decision to switch sides fully vindicated. The chants and cheers of the riotous commoners continued to play in her head. Today history had been made. What happened at the Bastille is precisely what she had left the Assassin Order for. They had refused to help the common folk, claimed it was not their war to fight.

She entered the indoors. Timothee, her direct superior, was sitting by a window, having wine below an ancestral Templar shield with the Grand Master.

"Jacques is dead," she said, bloodied hankerchief in hand. "I suspect his head is on a pike right now as well."

François spoke first. "Excellent work, my girl! Your coming to us has been an unfathomable blessing! I hope these events will help the king see reason."

"With all do respect, Grand Master..." Timothee said. "What I was trying to tell you earlier, those traitors, Adam's people...we shouldn't dismiss them as a threat. Just because their order was officially disbanded...was that not our fate, and the fate of our enemies, who we fight to this day?"

"I understand, Timothee. But here we have rare opportunity, a flower to nurture, if you will. We may even have an opportunity to reclaim what was stolen from us centuries ago. Besides, without the Apple, how much power can they really have?"

"But if it's true they found another First Civilization site, who knows what artifacts could be in their hands."

"I will take your point into consideration. But for now I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment with Maximilian and Jean. Best I get there before dark, times being what they are!"

He tipped his glass hard to get his final bit of wine and stood. Walking to the door she had just entered through, he stopped to acknowledge Élise again.

"We are forever in your debt, Élise."

François exited back into the sunny afternoon. Timothee looked at her. "I would like to echo his sentiments. Your performance has been spectacular. Care for a glass?"

"Yes, please," she said, and he gestured her to sit down on fancy chair François had previously occupied.

She sat, chair still warm from François majestic rump.

"All of this creates a power vacuum. François will ensure one of ours fills that void. I suspect Jean Sylvain Bailly will be his pick. The two seem to see eye to eye on more than anyone else. I'm very glad you never killed him."

It was painful to remember how she got here. She had been sent to kill Jean at the tennis court. But she could see he was a voice for justice. She had confessed her plan to kill him and offered to switch sides.

But she had needed to give up a secret to gain their trust.

The Templars said most the Assassins in the safehouse had fled upon their attack. She did not know if they were telling the truth.

Timothee continued, "I'm sure you're aware not everyone in our order sees things the same way, Élise. Maximilian, that man worries me. I think François trusts him too much."

"More than I worry you?" she said, gaze solemnly low.

"After today's performance? Yes!"

At least she had secured her place in her new home. The Templars were quicker to trust than she thought they would be, which was good. They rewarded good work, which was good. Her thoughts, however, were still lost in memories of that day she had been sent to kill Jean, and the hard decision she had made.

"Max, Marat, Momoro, they all worry me. I hope François picks the stewards of new France wisely. Even with all we've accomplished, our order seems less cohesive than ever."


	10. A Familiar Demon (1789)

It was a beautiful July afternoon, a week since the big day at the Bastille. Élise and the burly, mustached guard captain were practicing with wooden swords under the summer sun.

"Come on, Didier, you're holding back!"

"I am not, Madame!"

"I can see it in your eyes."

She had seen it in the eyes of many men when she had trained in the Assassin Order. Fortunately, not all men showed the same hesitation. Some were eager to prove her wrong, or perhaps right, and she had them to thank for her talents.

Élise heard Timothee open the double doors and enter the courtyard.

"Élise, my dear! We've got a new lead on Foullon!"

She ceased her practice and looked over.

"Joseph? _Ame damnée_? I'd heard he was dead."

"So had I, and many others. But it was a false report he circulated for his own protection. He's been hiding out. In Viry-Châtillon, in the house of his friend, Antoine de Sartine."

"Antonie...the one we have to blame for all those arbitrary arrests. You want me to kill him too?"

Timothee chuckled. "A commendable spirit, but no. Antonie seems to be away on business, or perhaps permanently, running like so many of King Louis' people. Eliminate Foullon. Wait for nightfall. Then strike."

"Joseph's made so many enemies. Are you sure it's even necessary? Perhaps we should simply share what we know and let the people do the rest."

Timothee laughed. "In fact, our source only agreed to provide information that Joseph might have a swift death."

"Sounds more like Joseph's friend than an enemy."

"Perhaps, but we keep our word! Go to Viry-Châtillon tonight and give Joseph that quick death."


	11. Joseph Foullon de Doué (1789)

She peered up from behind the bush. That beautiful house sheltered a wicked man, Joseph Foullon de Doué, the tyrant, the exploiter of the poor.

Not long ago, he would have thought himself invulnerable. Now he was hiding. But still, he was safe and cushy, sleeping at his friend's house on a feathered bed. That would end tonight.

Her path was clear: the house had generous artistic embellishments, which provided great foot and hand holds. The sills of the first floor windows were decorated, and each window had a unique bust above it, and above that, there were two ledges around the perimeter of the house: one was at the level of the first floor ceiling, one was at the level of the second floor window-sills. From there, a window was opened, with just enough space for a girl trained in Assassin gymnastics to vault her body through.

With the yard clear, it was time to go back into the opened.

She scampered across the stone tile to get to the front wall of the house, and planted herself behind another bush

She gave one last visual sweep of the area. Still no one.

She was going to transition from outdoors to indoors. She placed a foot atop one of the sets of fake, miniature columns which adorned the first floor window sills and grabbed the face sculpture above it. She grabbed the first ledge, then the second. Then came her biggest moment: time to use one of her most advanced Assassin tricks into the world, training becoming real world praxis. She vaulted through the window, using honed flexibility to dive through the narrow passage and flip back onto her feet in one quick motion.

She found herself in an ostentatious bedroom, and saw the shocked old man in his night gown and night cap pathetically clutching his fancy covers. But in a split second he overcame his shock and reached for something under his blankets, as Élise went for her pistol with equal vigor.

They both brought pistols to bear, they both fired.

But his shot shattered a vase, while her shot shattered his sternum. Élise had been trained in the quick draw, while Joseph had spent his pampered life hiding behind soldiers.

His nightgown was decorated with blood.

"You couldn't escape judgement, even here. What do you say the masses who have starved while you feasted?"

"What I've always said...let those rascals eat hay."

"Even at death's door, that's still how you want to be remembered?"

"I've never sought the people's love, not even those of my own stripe. What makes you think I would start now?"

"A fair point."

He let out a final sigh and fell onto his side, as his blood leaked onto his fancy bed.

Dirty boots upon fancy rug, she approached and took out her handkerchief. She wiped his blood upon it. Another noble struck down in the people's vengeance. Another accomplishment to report back to Timothee. Another righteous service for her new allegiance.


	12. Changing World (1789)

After the burst of bloodshed and accomplishment in the mid summer, Élise's life had been peaceful. She continued to train, though mostly alone. She had enjoyed the luxuries the Templars offered her, especially the rich and fancy food. Among her previous faction she had not exactly lived like a peasant, but it had hardly been a luxurious life either.

All the same, the city outside was tumultuous. There was still rampant hunger, and much more violence as citizens came to disregard royal authority. But she looked at all of that optimistically: France was going through growing pains, just like her when she had first started her training. And there had been fruits from all this: the abolition of feudal rights, most prominently.

Right now, she was sharing a meal of fish and marinated asparagus with the regular residents and few guests. The conversation had become rather heated, much like the politics outside their wall.

"It's that Austrian bitch Marie that keeps leading him astray! All those who've met with the king say the same. He's a reasonable man, but once the meeting is over and he's back behind closed doors, she manages to undue any progress we've made."

"Nonsense, she's a scapegoat! The people would rather blame a foreigner and a woman for their troubles!"

"I say we kill them both and be done with it! We already have so many of our people so close to the royal couple, it can't be that hard to slip poison in their tea."

"Abigail!"

"It's never that simple."

"What does it matter? The king only has power as long as the people agree to be bound by him, and every day his words carry less and less weight! The king can stay on his Earth as long as he likes, his power will wither away!"

"And what about when the other monarchs of Europe become scared of the people's disobedience?"

Then the dining hall doors opened, and the imposing figure of the Grand Master, clad in his signature dark coat and top hat, a guard by his side, caught every diner's attention.

"Everyone! I have some terrific news! A crowd, mostly women, have began marching on the Palace of Versailles! It's a remarkable sight! Thousands are protesting at the gates of the palace! Some of our finest have already arrived to give voice and order to them. I am offering transportation to anyone who wants to be part of this!"

_Women._ The world was changing. More people were starting to see things her way. She had been born at just the right time.

Élise stood. "I will go!"

"Excellent! Anyone else?"

He looked about the crowd, likely expecting more volunteers.

"Well then, Élise, let's be off!"

She left her unfinished lunch without hesitation. She was jubilant to again be part of French history. The last few months had been nothing but spectating. She was eager to once more be a voice for the common citizen.

Following him out into the chilly autumn air, a mahogany horse-drawn carriage was waiting. Though their vessels was regal, their missions was for the have-nots. This time her service might not be as violent, might not be as effective, but it would be service none the less. The three: François, his guard, and Élise, all entered the comfortable interior and sat on the ridged scarlet cushions.

The driver jostled the reigns and horse began clopping forward.

"Élise, have you met Monsieur Robespierre yet?"

"No, sir." Although she had heard the name thrown around several times in banter among Templars.

"Well, he's at the march, and I'm sure he'll be eager to meet you. Word of your deeds have spread far across the order!"

"I'm honored, Grand Master."

It had been a painful transition from Assassin to Templar, but its fruits were rich. The Templar's trust, nobility, and efficacy had exceeded her greatest hopes. It had been an incredibly good choice to come out of the darkness of her old order.


	13. Populist Deluge (1789)

"I think it's best if we proceed the rest of the way on foot," François said. "Less attention than a horse-drawn carriage."

She had still not seen the crowd, facing the opposite direction, but she could certainly hear them.

The Grand Master and his guard began to make their way out, and Élise followed.

Stepping back onto the dirty cobblestone, she looked to see a marvel. It was majestic and breath-taking. She had never seen such a large sea of people. Mostly women, they carried all sorts of weapons: from rolling pins to kitchen knives to muskets.

The palace itself, which she had only heard of, reminded her of the Hôtel De Ville. It paled in comparison to the populist deluge.

"So who is this Maximilien Robespierre? The name sounds familiar."

"One of our men close to the king. He's young, barely into his thirties, but very well educated, very persuasive, and very passionate. He's climbed through the ranks of our order at tremendous speed."

They proceeded into the thick of the storm. The women's chants and shouts blended indistinctly. Wading through the protestors she saw the crisp blue uniform of a National Guardsman among the rioters. Even more surprisingly, she thought she could make out a cannon. Yes, it was a cannon. These protestors, if they could even be called such, surely meant business.

"There he is," the Grand Master said, pointing to someone next to a box and a lamp-post "The taller one." He wore a funny striped coat. He was talking to a short and ugly man, who parted and disappeared into the crowd just as Élise and François approached.

"Maximilien, I would like to introduce you to our illustrious firebrand from the Assassin Order, Élise de la Serre."

She felt a pang of discomfort at the mention of her past, but proud to be presented to other higher-ups.

"Élise," he said with a small bow. "I'm humbled to meet you, it seems like we live an era of fierce women."

Indeed. These women were very different from her, though. They were paupers looking for bread. Even among the Assassins, she had been privileged compared to most of France.

"Likewise, Monsieur Robespierre."

"What can you tell us about the marchers, Maximilien? How have things proceeded?"

"The king's heard our demands, but no further progress," Maximilien said simply.

"Well, he can't ignore a turn out like this," François said, gaze sweeping the crowd. "Especially when so many soldiers have joined the people."

Robespierre did not respond. Élise tried to read his face. It was stern, not optimistic. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well," the Grand Master began, finally restoring the conversation, "As much as I would like to stay here and see how things proceed, I'm afraid I cannot. Farewell, you two."

François departed, leaving her with Robespierre and the thousands he was trying to represent.

"So, you mentioned demands. What are they, exactly?" She could think of plenty to demand from the royalty, but wanted to know the specifics.

"This march started over fury at the ridiculous bread prices at the market. But we want the king to do more than just address the hunger of the masses. We want him to return to Paris, not isolate himself here like a coward."

The latter did not seem like a big deal to Élise, but she knew all too well about the starvation. Some claimed the aristocrats were starving the peasants on purpose, a nuisance to dispose of. Élise did not believe such things, nor did her fellow Templars seem to give much gravitas to the theory. Regardless, there were plenty of granary stores to be cracked opened.

"How did a march this grand get started?"

"I suspect we did what we always do: give the people a little push, let them do the rest. Once the people get their momentum, they rarely turn back. But I can't say for certain, I wasn't here from the beginning. It started somewhere in Faubourg Saint Antoine. I only knew once they reached the city hall."

She wondered if the Apple was involved. Regardless, she could scantily say it was being used unethically. It seemed the Templars, at least in this day and age, did not change who people were, just encouraged them to be be themselves. To free themselves.

"Was François there with them?"

Robespierre opened his mouth to respond, when someone else caught their attention:

"Attention everyone!" shouted a man standing on a stack of crates behind the palace gate. "King Louis has agreed to meet a deputation of six women from the crowd. Please pick those among you who see best suited as ambassadors and bring them to the front gate."

There was a small cheer from the gargantuan throng. Élise looked back at her colleage. But to her surprise, his expression remained stern.

"Well, maybe the King's not so stubborn after all," she said brightly.

"We shall see."

He began walking.

"Where are you going?"

"The front gate, to give the people some order."


	14. Rumble of Discontent (1789)

Élise was not tall, so seeing her way through the crowd was not easy. Through the sea of fishwives and soldiers, however, she believed she could make out something. The six ambassador women were arriving back at the front gate, and the man who gave the invitation was getting back on his box.

"Our meeting proved most amicable and productive!" he shouted to the crowd. "The king has agreed to release two stores of grain, with more promised in the near future!"

There was a rumble from the crowd. Élise could not tell if it was approval or disapproval. She glanced over to the woman at her right, but could not read her face either.

Rain was beginning to patter down, however, and many were no doubt eager to leave at this point.

In the sea of faces, she recognized Robespierre coming back to her position. His expression, however, was clearly angry.

"Monsieur, I expected you'd look happier."

"It's a small concession. The whimper of a scared animal."

"Were you expecting more?"

"So much more, Élise!" he said dourly.

He looked about briefly, with an odd sort of anxiety. Then he reached into his pocket. "Listen, I want you to stay in the vicinity of this...development." He removed something, grabbed her hand and placed several coins in her palm before closing her fingers around them.

He pointed "Head to the tavern by the archway. Get yourself some food and a room."

"Monsieur, I-"

"Go, Élise, please. We'll talk again in the morning, if not sooner. I'm going to...meet with Grand Master François, discuss our next steps."

She stared at him for a second, but for naught. She turned to follow orders. She did not like the man. She could not quite find the right words, but pessimistic and aggressive were in proximity. Still, he was her superior.

At least she would get out of the rain.

She weaved through the sea of women, peering at the tavern sign like a lighthouse across stormy seas. Most of the women seemed to have faces like Robespierre, the crowd did not seem pleased, although a smattering had turned to leave. She did not know what the peasants went through, perhaps she was in a bad position to judge when they should rejoice. So many of these bellies had been hungry. For all the risks of her work, she had been well fed her entire life.

Making it out of the crowd and entering the tavern, the establishment looked middle-class, which was probably about as low-end as one could get this close to the palace. Patrons were copious for the harsh times. Tending the bar was a portly man with pronounced jowls, cleaning the surface rather vigorously with a white rag. Carbaret music played in the background.

He looked up.

"Ouais?"

"Just a roll, please," she said. She had more than her fill of fancy food back at the chateau. It actually felt more novel to order a simple meal.

After receiving her bread (on a small white plate), she headed for a lounge chair not far from the fire.

She sat down, giving her legs a well deserved break.

But she noticed something unsettling. From this angle, the tavern reminded her unpleasantly of the Parisian safehouse, the one whose location she had betrayed to the Templars.

It was not where she had been born and raised, that was up north, with a loving if sometimes distant family. Tucked away in the beautiful country side, the Assassins and Templars war had been little more than mythical to her. She had been trained in its name, but it was not until she came to Paris that she truly understood things.

Her compatriots in Paris had never been people she loved. Claude was a nasty man, and even the others had always seemed suspicious of her, as if foreseeing her betrayal. Louise was the only person there she could truly say she liked. But she still could not help be haunted as she thought about all their fates: Jules, Marie, Jean-Pierre, Louise, Claude, Simon-Jacques, she wondered where they all were now, how many were alive, and what they thought of her. They had no way of knowing her betrayal for certain, but...

She tried to shake off the thought. She had made the right decision. The Assassins were too fixated on nigh-millenia old grudges. The people in Paris were suffering because of it. The Templars had turned their eyes to the betterment of mankind. The Assassins would stop them only out of an unquenchable hatred.

Looking for a distraction, she tried to listen to the gathering at the nearest table.

"But why, why would they want to starve their own people?"

"Less rattling chains, fewer people willing to stand up to injustice!"

"Even a slave driver wants his slaves fed."

"Then how do you explain the rationing!? This country has plenty of food, but it's all tucked away in-"

Another crowd entered through the main doors, a gentleman in a top hat and a couple of women.

"Now don't be so pessimistic, dear!"

"Mark my words, that Austria witch will talk him out of this!"

Marie Antoinette. The people loved to blame her. Was it because she was a woman, or a foreigner, or was there really something more than bigotry at play?

Finishing her bread, she rose. It was time to get away from the all the others. She walked to the bar, the jowls-man cleaning a glass.

"A room, please," she said.

The portly put down the glass and reached under the bar and produced a key.

"Second door on the left. Chamber pots are extra."

"Merci, Monsieur."

She took the key. After such a day, some peace and quiet would be a tremendous change.

Through the hall and to the room, she unlocked the door. It was simpler accommodations than she was used to, but it would certainly suffice. A place like this was at least classy enough to be free of bed bugs.

She had not a gown to change into, but with such heavy thoughts sifting through her mind it hardly made a difference. She unsaddled her copious equipment, and then plopped onto her bed.

She stared at the ceiling. After so many hours on her feet, such an eventful day, it felt like the bed was a raft moving through a breezy sea.

Élise de la Serre, an agent of the Templars.

Her mind wandered back to that fateful day at the tennis court, to Jean-Sylvia Bailley's long, thin face and righteous words. The flesh she was supposed to sink a blade into spared, the man was now the mayor of Paris.

Then she thought back to her life back in Normandy, the beautiful countryside in which she was raised. She thought back to her family: her deceased mother, her grieving father, her beloved sister. If only the Assassins had fighting for the cause they claimed, for the people. But she clung to the hope those she loved back north were naive, not deceitful. She clung to the hope her family would have understood too, if they come to Paris, seen the suffering of the common people and the hope brought by the men the Assassins sought to kill.

She thought back to the tomes of Rosseau and Voltaire, the books that would lubricate her betrayal.

But there was no turning back. It was a pointless thing to ponder. She was a Templar now, and they were leading the march of the French people.


	15. Hell Hath No Fury (1789)

Knocking. She was not in her usual bed, and felt some momentary confusion before the events of yesterday came back to her.

"Élise! Rise at once, opportunity presents itself!"

It was Robespierre. She liked him even less now.

Through her window, Élise could see it was still dark outside. Of course, during October, that did not mean much.

She did not bother responding, not feeling courteous, but after a few seconds of staring pointlessly at the nightstand, she rolled back onto her feet and grabbed her key. The floor boards creaked as she headed for the door.

She inserted the key and unlocked the door.

The look on his face told her an entire sleepless night had passed since their last encounter. She could at least credit him with keeping busy.

"What is it, Monsieur?"

"That will have to wait. Follow me, and let's be hasty!"

They exited the inn, Jowls-Man glaring at her.

The air was cold and humid, but no longer raining. The crowd was still copious. A few torches were lit among them to counter the darkness, though Élise's instinct told her the sun would rise in an hour or two.

They began weaving through the sea, their pace just beneath a run. Élise was almost worried she would lose Robespierre amongst the ragged women.

They must have been cold, tired, and hungry standing out for so long. Robespierre looked like he had been up the entire night as well, although he had likely spent some of that time in doors.

But where was he taking her? They seemed to heading towards some side flank of the palace, at a lower altitude than the main courtyard. What could he want to show her?

Their destination appeared to be a second gate. Gilded and fancy, but much smaller than that at the main entrance.

"Splendid! Still no guards!"

There were, indeed, no guards. On the other side was a path lined with potted trees, the gardens of the lower level, and a grand, stone staircase.

"You're asking me to infiltrate the palace?" Élise asked incredulously.

"And kill the royal couple," he added.

Her jaw dropped.

"We must cease the opportunity while it presents itself!" he commanded. "Besides, you won't work alone. Open these gates, and a thousands like-minded women and men will flood the palace grounds."

She looked back towards the innocuous little gate, left unguarded by mere accident, now supposed to be the doom of the royal couple.

Killing the King was one thing, he had the power, but Marie Antoinette? She was just a voice. Although if King Louis were to expire, would she take his place? Élise had assumed women could not become regents in France, though she never actually knew the law.

She looked back towards Robespierre, but he was gone. She was left with only his orders.

She saw opportunities other women did not. With her spider-like abilities, she saw just where to put her hands and feet to make it over the gate, from there she could unlock it for the others.

It was still an intimidating task.

But she was given orders, there was nothing to wait for. This is the path she had chosen, the path of a warrior.

She walked out of the front of the crowd, distinguishing herself, and began exercising her craft, climbing up using the subtle foot and handholds of the architecture. She listened to the crowd behind her, but couldn't make out anything distinct.

Making it to the top, she lept and landed in royal territory, and turned her attention straight to the gate. Opening this would break a dam, and change French history.

She unlatched the locking mechanism, with a memorable click and there was a roar from the crowd. She caught a glimpse of a young blonde woman in a kerchief before turning to begin forward. She was a soldier, leading a charge. Her cavalry, like her, mostly young women. What a time to be alive. She unholstered her pistol.

Up the great stairs, there was much empty space ahead of her, in contrast with the roaring sea of commoner rage behind her. She did not know how long it would stay empty. There was plenty of ambient noise from the front of the palace that they might not realize something was amiss until they saw it.

She thought about those she had been ordered to kill. She only hoped she would encounter the King first.

But she was almost at the top, and so far their journey had been clear. Robespierre's off the cuff orders might have been shrewd tactics. Maybe she should have had more faith in her superiors.

She made it to the horizon. The queer gardens of the Parti Du Midi stood ahead of them, between the cavalry of women and the imposing icon of evil: the palace. She could already see an opened second floor window, her point of entry.

The blue coated guards in the distance had taken notice of them. Rather than firing, they yelled at each other to return to the palace. It was a smart move, given how inaccurate muskets were at such a range. But the people's justice was coming. Some of them behind her would no doubt fall today.

The men would waiting for them, but not likely prepared at her point of entry. She could only wish the rest best of lucky, certainly some would fall. Today, women were the soldiers of revolution.

The palace ahead was once a place of safety, luxury, and power. Now it would see blood.

She was nearing the mighty stone architecture.**  
**

Using her honed and unladylike muscles, she exploited the copious decorative ridges to crawl her way up, something none of the other women could never manage.

With a final thrust on a much more welcoming hand-hold, the window railing, she vaulted herself in.

She found herself in a brilliant room: a great unlit fireplace, art on the ceiling, marble coated walls could only begin to describe the sight. She heard muffled yelling, something about barricading a door. She tried to follow its direction.

She barged into the next room. It was almost empty, but no less artistic. The intricate patterns on the walls and ceiling made it almost dizzying. Weapon racks lined the walls, empty. How ironic the guards had left this place.

Élise busted through the next door, scarlet walls and sparkling chandeliers. She kept running.

She burst into the next room. It was most spectacular: gold and white, crystalline chandeliers, and most importantly a bed! But the quilts were ruffled, like the occupant had just departed.

She could hear more voices, troops barking out orders, something about the queen. Following the sound Élise charged for the next door.

She collided with stiff resistance, the door barely budging from its place.

A musket ball shot through, splintering the wood and passing her abdomen by a finger's length.


	16. Special Report (1789)

It was mid-afternoon when the Templar chateau was finally back in view. Élise was a ragged sight: a giant bruise an her cheek, a deep gash on her right arm that rendered it nigh incapacitated, and a tremendous bloody spot on her sleeve. But finally, she was home.

"Élise!?" the front guard asked in disbelieve.

"Yes, Monsieur. I'm afraid I failed the task I was given."

"Your wounds need tending to! Please, come in!"

He eagerly opened the gate.

The gardens, vibrant but modest compared to Versailles.

Given the scope of her task, perhaps failure was not surprising. But she had never reported a failure before.

Her injured frame caught the attention of some of the others, but she tried to pay them no mind.

She entered the chateau to find Grand Master François chatting with Timothee. They both turned to her, and their mouths fell agape.

"I'm sorry, Grand Master. I failed to kill either of the royal couple."

But instantly, somehow, she knew something was wrong.

"Kill the royal couple? Are you mad!?"

She forgot all about her previous problems.

"Monsieur Robespierre said those were your orders!"

The Grand Master looked back at Timothee, who bared a similar expression, then back at her.

"I gave no such a order!"

There was a heavy silence. This was even bigger than she had imagined. She was not just reporting a failure, but a betrayal within their ranks.

Maybe her failure was a good thing.

He asked, "Have you seen Maximilien since?"

"No, Grand Master."

He looked down, stunned in silence for a second. Élise felt like a scared, little lamb caught in the middle of this. He slammed his walking stick down on the floor.

"Dammit! First those traitors in Bavaria, now this!?"

Denis, who had just entered the room, spoke up: "You're trusting the word of an Assassin over one of our own!?"

"_Former _Assassin!" François thundered back. "And show some gratitude. Élise rescued you from that terrible prison!"

Élise was shaking from the emotions of the moment.

The Grand Master looked down in distress, shaking his head and scratching his brow slightly. "He was a fanatic, not so different from Weishaupt. I should have known he'd go sour."

Timothee spoke. "Grand Master, respectfully, I could take this opportunity to gloat. I warned you about Maximilien. But I rather suggest we be rational about this. I think we should wait until we have all the facts before jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it was some sort of misunderstanding."

"Right," the distressed man said. Recomposing himself and readjusting the scarf on his neck, he looked back at Élise, solid and earnest. "I'm going to launch and investigation. In the mean time, I'm afraid you'll have to be...detained. Forbidden from leaving this chateau, I mean. And for the time being, you must relinquish your arms."

"I understand, Monsieur."

It all felt like a punch in the stomach, but even she was likely not the most burdened by this news.


	17. Welcome Home (Modern Times)

When Desmond came to, Lucy was shining a flash-light in his eyes, Rebecca also looking over him. He was on a cot, somewhere dim and dingy and industrial.

"He's awake!" Lucy said.

"Oh thank God, Dez! We've been trying to reach you for hours!"

Lucy turned off her flashlight.

"You made quite a spectacle up there, Desmond," a dour Shaun said somewhere out of view. "We've been trying to keep a low profile."

"Ugh, sorry, bleeding effect."

"You were yelling some weird things, Dez," Rebecca said. "What did you see?"

"I was in the memories of some chick...Elise I think her name was."

It felt odd enough saying he was in the memories of a female, but he felt outright uncomfortable saying the next part, "Weird thing is...she was a Templar."

"A Templar?" Shaun said. "In your bloodline?"

"I mean, she was some kind of turncoat. But -"

"But somehow her DNA ended up back with us. That's strange indeed. What was the time period?"

"I think it was...the eighteen-hundreds. Maybe seventeen-hundreds. The French Revolution, maybe?"

Desmond never did well in history class.

"That's very strange. I'll have to look at our records from that time period. Although if you were willing to get back in the animus-"

"No!" Lucy said firmly, turning back to Shaun. "If Desmond is suffering the bleeding effect this severely...he needs to rest now."

Desmond was not sure whether to grateful or disappointed. He had been eager to fight the Templars, but he never disliked an opportunity to slack off.

Lucy turned her gaze back to him. "Desmond," she asked tenderly. "Do you remember anything important?"

"Yeah..." he said groggily. The experience had been so vivid. "The Templars, they had the Apple again. Or one of the Apples. And they kept bringing up...traitors. Something about 'traitors in Bavaria.'"

"My God..." Shaun said.

"What...is that important?"

"We always thought they were a scapegoat, a red herring the Templars used to distract people from the real ones pulling the strings. But if they were really ruffling the Templar's feathers that much, maybe..."

"Maybe what? Who are we talking about?"

"We're sorry, Desmond," Lucy said. "Have you ever heard of the Illuminati?"

"Not much more than the name..."

"They were a European secret society believed to be disbanded in the late eighteenth century. Maybe while you're 'resting' you could do a little light reading," Shaun said. "A man named John Robinson wrote all about them in 1797 in a book with a stupendously long title. I believe we have a copy somewhere around here."

"I'm not much of a reader," Desmond grumbled, shifting on his cot.

"Honestly you're not much of anything right now, Desmond. We can't trust you on the field with flashbacks like that, and we can't put you back in the animus, though I'd-"

"SHAUN," Lucy said sternly. "Leave it alone."

She looked back at him. "I'm sorry, Desmond. Shaun's a little testy after you called so much attention to us. He's been working to cover our tracks."

Desmond propped himself up. He was about to survey his surroundings, but the first thing which caught his attention was a fast-approaching muscular man with biceps like tree-trunks and a shaved head coming from the backside of the sanctuary. Arriving at Desmond's bedside, he shook his hand vigorously.

"Hello, Desmond," he said with a thick French accent. "It is an honor to meet the illustrious Subject 16."

"Subject 17," Desmond corrected.

"Subject 17, je suis désolé. My name is Claude Jorpin, the only survivor in the Paris cell. Cécillia, Emmanuel, Nicolas, Efau, Michèle, Ibrahmin, all our brave fellows struck down in recent months. It is nice to finally have some new friends."


	18. The Present and The Past (Modern Times)

It was afternoon as Desmond was finishing his lunch, about twenty-four hours since his incident. The new sanctuary was amid a bustling, waterside part of town, counter to what he had expected. 'Hide in plain sight,' his ancestors had said. Maybe he should not be surprised. From what he could tell it was an abandoned boat shop. Almost all of its original contents had been emptied. Some remarkable new additions included a row of cots, a punching bag, and a shrine to Claude's fallen comrades. That made Desmond morosely think back to his old enclave in America. His 'crazy hippy' parents were now likely dead.

Lucy was approaching, as Desmond took his final bite.

"Desmond, how have you been? Have you had any more flashbacks, hallucinations?"

He swallowed.

"No, I've been fine. Just a little unnerved, that's all."

"I get that," she responded sympathetically. She looked off to the side. Desmond had a feeling there was more and he dreaded it.

"Desmond, I...I want to take you out back. See if you can operate outside without an incident."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, I...we need all the operatives we can get. I don't like to put you at risk but-"

"Fine," Desmond said. He had stated back in the warehouse he was ready to fight the Templars. It was time to put weight behind his words. "I guess it's that or stay cooped up in here forever."

Maybe the animus had permanently ruined him, but the whole world would be permanently ruined if the Templars got their way.

"C'mon out with me to the backyard. We'll do a bit of a refresher."

He rose.

As they walked, he asked, "So who were these 'Illuminati' Shaun was freaking out over?"

"It's...complicated, Desmond. You could say they were an unofficial offshoot of the Free Masons, since they recruited a lot of their former members."

"The Free Masons?"

"A front organization for the Templars after they were officially disbanded. Like Abstergo is today."

_Free...Masons_. That was funny name for anything.

She opened the door to the back. Desmond stepped outside, beginning his important trial. French architecture, the buildings adjacent to their back lot, hit his eyes. But he stayed in the present. So far, so good. That was a pleasant relief.

"So who were these 'Free Masons?'"

"Stone workers at first. A guild of stone workers. Then they became a fraternity."

"So we're fighting frat boys?"

"I'm not talking about beer chugging and hook-ups with freshmen, Desmond. They were brotherhoods of men bound by common ideas: Skepticism of authority and established religion, mostly."

"But I thought...we were the ones...you know, sticking it to the man."

"It's never that simple, Desmond."

Desmond felt trace anger; he felt like a child being talked down to.

"Let's see you climb that shed."

But he had to focus on the more pressing issues at hand.

Just like Elise, he spidered his way up. He made it to the top, seeing the backyards of other adjacent buildings, and looked down at Lucy from his seven-foot perch. This was all very reassuring.

"Great, now jump down and see if you can land with a roll."

Desmond did so, seamlessly.

"Still no hallucinations, right?"

"No, I'm fine."

After yesterday's incident he thought he might be screwed.

"We have an operation planned for tonight. I...I think you might be up for the task."

He was not sure he agreed, but it seemed like it would be now or never.

"Really? Who do I get to kill?" Then inside he cringed a little at his words. He had ended life at warehouse back in the United States, and he had not exactly relished in it since.

"His name's not important, we know the vehicle he drives." His heart sank a bit that he actually _was_ going to have to kill someone, and it felt weird hearing Lucy speak so callously of it. "Abstergo has a facility nearby. We're going have you sneak into their underground parking lot, and ambush him when he's getting in his car. Then take his cellphone. Putting you on that operation will free another one of us to look for the nearest Apple of Eden. We're going to head to Toulouse to look for some leads."

"Where's that?"

"Nearer to the border with Spain."

They headed back inside.

"By the way, Desmond, we did a little digging into your family history. Well, Shaun did, mostly. It seems you're a descendant of Gustave Dorian, an adopted son of Arno Dorian. Gustave was left orphaned by the chaos of the French revolution. He wasn't born into the Assassin Order. That means you shouldn't have any ancestry in the French branch of Assassins prior to Napoleonic Era."

"So...how did I get the memories of that Elise chick?"

"That's just it, Desmond. It's still a mystery. I guess it's possible Gustave was her son but...You should talk to Shaun if you have any more questions."

Desmond was silent. He was never eager to talk to Shaun.

"So how long are you and the crew going to be Toulouse?"

"We can't know for sure. It depends on what leads we get. We might never come back." Desmond felt a pinch of heart break, but had to remember Lucy was probably out of his league regardless.

"But we'll keep in close contact," she added. "I promise."


	19. Cold Blooded Killer (Modern Times)

Desmond landed on the parking lot asphalt, now in Abstergo territory, concealed by a large truck trailer and the shadows of night.

He was really doing it: Desmond Miles, the assassin. It was surreal.

"Rebecca, I'm in. What does this car look like, again?"

"It's a big black van, we're almost certain it's going to be in the underground parking lot. You remember the license plate, right?"

"Yeah."

"Desmond, remember: you need to keep a low profile. Abstergo's security is hair triggered. If anyone finds out you're there, they'll go into lockdown and your target will never leave the building."

'Your target', the man he was supposed to murder. What a world.

He got low to look out from under the truck trailer. He could see the entrance to the underground parking lot. He could also see a sliver of someone attending the entrance booth. There was another guard driving around in a strange, golf-cart like vehicle. Only a few cars remained parked outside, none of which were vans, but they could be useful cover.

Coming at the underground parking lot directly would get him spotted, so he would have to work his way around. However, two adjacent truck trailers provided good cover.

He crept along the asphalt. Someone would die tonight by his hands. That was his new reality. If he played his cards right, however, it would be only one man. He had tried to escape this life, only to be thrown back into it. He was in a totally new continent, but it was the same war, a war almost one thousand years old.

He had made it past the truck trailers. At his new angle, he could make a dash and probably avoid notice. It was not a certainty, but in this new life he had to learn to accept risks.

With a bit of faith he made a quick and subtle dash to take cover behind a small, silver car, then pressed himself hard against his new inanimate friend.

His heart was pounding. He let things settle for a few seconds. But he noticed he could hear the patrol cart. It was moving in his direction, the light from the headlights creeping up. The driver would likely not notice him when passing, but as the cart was approaching the end of the parking lot, it would have to turn around soon. That's when Desmond would be vulnerable.

He hugged his position, preparing for another dash. The first one had gone as he had expected.

The queer little vehicle passed him, the guard oblivious. Desmond surrendered his cover and made a light footed dash for the wall flanking the underground parking entrance.

He pressed himself against the wall. He had never felt so much adrenaline. The cart continued to hum through the parking lot as he got on all fours and snuck under the glass window of the booth, then past its door.

He had conquered two demons. As he began on the downward slope, two guards none the wiser, he felt liberation, euphoria. But it was not over.

The underground parking lot was sparsely populated, and he quickly saw the car. There was another vehicle, a red SUV, a couple of spots down which could conveniently hide him from view for anyone approaching from further inside. Now fate was being kind to him.

He took his place, awaiting the ambush.


	20. Final Rest (Modern Times)

"Here," Desmond said simply. He placed the phone on Rebecca's desk with a small clunk.

"Awesome work, Dez!" she said. Desmond was irked by her chipper attitude.

He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and grabbed a cold can of beer. It let out a loud, fresh hiss and he chugged it. Finishing about half, he set it back down and closed the door. He went for his cot. He lied down.

He started at the ceiling angular ceiling. He reflected on his victim's last moments, all the blood...Here was Desmond Miles, across the ocean, a killer, in a life he had long ago tried to escape.

He remembered his old enclave in rural America. So many of those people, his _family_, were now dead. What would have happened if he had stayed? He would probably be dead, killed in a firefight with Templar thugs not unlike those who had come to warehouse. He could just imagine, loud bangs, his fellow Assassins falling, a P226 in his hand (the gun he had held right before he had decided to run away).

It was an ugly, ugly world.

Desmond closed his eyes. But he did not see the man he killed or see his parents. He saw something else.


	21. A House in Orleans (1790)

It was a pleasant spring day at the Favre estate, or what was called the "Orleans Enclave" within the Assassin Order. It was farm, a fortress, and a village, headed by Arno Dorian's maternal uncle. It was several miles from the city of Orleans, about half a mile from Loire river.

Arno twisted his way around his adversary, turning the tables and getting his own pistol to his head.

"Not bad, pisspot," Pierre Bellec said. "Next time I won't go so easy on you."

"Arno," said Delphine. Arno had not realized her approach. He disengaged from his mentor. "Your uncle Augustin would like to speak with you. You too, Monsieur Bellec."

"What about?"

"A foray into Paris."

"Paris?"

Arno and Bellec looked at each other. "Look's you're moving up in the world, pisspot. Let's hope you last longer than those poor sods from Normandy."

"We, old man," Arno corrected. "We're both going."

They began heading to the manor, passing men and women tending crops, earning a traditional salute from one of the guards. Arno had heard a lot about Paris: the Normandy envoy slaughtered, the Templars infiltrating high society, women storming the Palace of Versailles, and most ominously was the rumor they were back in possession of the Apple of Eden. It was quite thrilling to be picked for Paris, a city of so much historic and contemporary significance.

"I can't believe it's taken this long to let us loose," Bellec said. "At this rate, the Templars will claim this country harder than America."

Arno had heard all about that country growing up. It was spoken of like the Templar's own nation. It was talked about with fear and reverence among the Order. Some worried France was next. It would be poetic for the Templars to reclaim the nation in which they were born.

Uncle Augustin's mansion was the centerpiece of the Assassin enclave. The farming operation was mostly a front, though it did well to generate some funds and feed the populace. They entered the splendorous house and headed up the curved staircase for the office.

"Arno, Pierre come in, sit down!" said his portly uncle. Their chairs were already set up. They set their rumps down upon the scarlet cushions.

He poured them tea from his painted, china pot.

"I'm sure you've heard about Paris: la Bastille, the women at Versailles, Templars crawling all over high society...worst of all we fear they might have the Apple of Eden back in their possession. Or found another one."

"I've heard it all before," Bellec said. "Been hearing about it for a year now. Cut to the chase, s'il te plaît."

"Yes, well..." even after all this time people were still caught off guard by Pierre's brusque attitude. "I believe it's time to act...again. The Normandy Enclave sent their people. They were slaughtered quickly after an failed attempt to assassinate John Sylvian Bailly. Now he's Mayor of Paris. Master Raffarin refused to authorize any further incursions in to the city. But recent events, and some vigorous persuasion on my part, have changed his mind. I've already spoken to Joseph and Paul, they will accompany you. Obviously, you're assuming command, Monsieur Bellec."

"Only four people? You've got to be joking."

"Four of our best. Besides, the larger the party, the more attention you'll draw."

Uncle Augustin reached into his desk and pulled out a document. "I've already compiled a list of our most important adversaries in the region."

He pushed piece of parchment over to Bellec. Bellec took it, and looked over it, grumbling.

"So when do we head out?" Arno asked. He had traveled before, but never to Paris. This was exciting.

"That's up to Monsieur Bellec's discretion."

Pierre did not even look from his list. "We're heading our first thing tomorrow, pisspot. This little expedition is long overdue."

"Also, while you're there, keep an eye out for foreign nationals. The Templars seem to be collaborating across state lines more than usual. Austrians, Bavarians, men like those should peak your interest."


	22. Arrival (1790)

Pierre Bellec gave the reigns another jolt, and the stallions briskened their pace. It was early evening as they arrived at the historic city. The streets were muddy from an earlier rain. Only a smattering of people were out, and about a third of them were the blue-coated soldiers. The four Assassins were on the outskirts of the metropolis, far from the more impressive buildings Arno had seen on the horizon.

Arno had traveled before, but he had never set foot in a city other than Orléans. Bellec had been around, even across the ocean, and only arrived at the Orléans sanctuary a couple of years ago to fill a void. Joseph had been to Tours, but never Paris. Paul, the youngest of the four, had never slept out of his bed at the Favre estate.

But they had all killed people.

"To think," Bellec said. "After all this, we've sent what? Seven men from Normandy's and four from Orléans. I swear, our leaders have a soft spot for this revolution."

"Can you blame them? Things have been terrible for the peasants."

"Sure can, pisspot. The Templars'll be much worse than the Ancien Régime, mark my words."

Arno was not sure he believed that, but that did not mean the revolution needed Templar leadership.

However, the moral component aside, there was still the issue of their own mortality. Last time the Order had sent Assassins to deal with the Templar infestation in this city, they had all been killed. And that was seven people, not four. That was a bit worrisome to Arno.

"So what happened to the Normandy envoy?" Arno asked.

"They got found, and they got dead. Not much a story."

"All of them died? No one escaped?"

"They sent a dame to kill Bailly. She wasn't among the dead. Bet she got captured and squealed."

"A woman, really?" Women were part of the Assassin Order, of course, but if they operated on the field they usually filled the role of spies. Rarely were they tasked with actual elimination.

"And look where it got us. Sometimes you're better of sticking to tradition."

Bellec stopped the horses.

"There it is, our new home."

It was modest, two floor cottage perhaps a quarter size of his uncle's manor. A short stone wall surrounded it, but only offered about five feet of yard infront, ten on the side and twenty in the back. Still, inside a city, that was generously spacious.

"C'mon, it's time to unpack," Bellec said, disembarking from the carriage. They both headed to the back, where Paul and Joseph were getting off with small pieces of furniture.

"So who do you think is the first Templar to snuff?" Arno asked with a low voice.

"They're all well-guarded men. This isn't like going furniture shopping, pisspot. We'll need to gather intelligence, find out their vulnerabilities, plan our approach."

Each taking a box, they proceeded towards the house. "I'm thinking the Comte de Mirabeau, honestly. That Mason dog seems to have everyone's ear. I hear he was even consulting with the king when the dames laid their siege at Versailles. Or maybe we can complete Normandy's work and finish off that bastard Bailly."

Bellec laid down his box, then did Arno his.

"You think it's true they reclaimed the Apple?"

"Or found another one. Don't know, don't care. We kill the bastards regardless."

"How'd they lose the first Apple, anyway?"

"No one knows for sure. Someone found a letter a couple centuries back mentioning it disappeared in Italy."

The Apple of Eden was spoken of like a ghost story among the Order, an eerie legend no one could fully believe or disbelieve. There were rumors that the Templar had other magical charms: the Egyptian Ankh, the Excalibur, the Seven League Boots, but those were just rumors. The Apple of Eden was recorded in the oldest annals of the Assassins, in the writings of the legendary Altair Ibn-La'Had.

"Merde, c'est lourd! Dorian, help me with this would you?"

"Since you asked so politely," the Assassin said with a smirk.

He grabbed the nearer side of the chest, which Arno recognized as the wine store.

"If they did find another Apple, I'd bet my arse it was from the New World," Pierre added as they moved the chest. "Two whole continents and a hundred lush islands ripe for picking. The Templars have had their greedy paws all over it."

They set down the cargo, as the other two Assassins set down a desk.

"That's everything, sir," Paul said.

"Right, good," Bellec said. "I'll get the horsies stabled. Joseph, come with me. Arno, Paul, start setting up."

As the two older men proceeded back to the carriage, Paul looked to Arno.

"You think its true, a metal ball that can control people's minds?"

"It's how the fight between our Orders started. That doesn't leave much room for doubt."


	23. Showtime (1790)

"How do I look?" Arno asked with a hint of smugness as he adjusted his collar

"Presentable, pisspot," said Bellec.

He cleared away from the mirror. Bellec took his place to examine his own reflection.

"Why are we attending a festival in tribute to everything our enemies brought about, anyway?" Paul whined.

"I already explained it two bloody times. We're no going there to celebrate. We're going there to gather intelligence. That festivals bound to be crawling with Templars."

He turned and headed for the door. "C'mon."

Outside was a warm summer day. An orange butterfly fluttered past their path. One year ago, the peasants had stormed the Bastille. Now it was supposedly rubble, and France had changed so much even the king was outwardly celebrating that day of defiance.

"You think it's true what they're saying?" Paul said. "That the monarchs in other countries are going to step in, put a stop to all this?"

"Did you hear about the _Constitution civile du clergé_?" Joseph said. "It passed two days ago. The Pope must be fuming._**"**_

"This festival is a slap in the face to a lot of powerful people," Arno added.

"Just focus on the present, garçons."

The streets were almost empty. A squirrel ran across the road.

Even at this distance from the Champ de Mars, they could already hear the crowd.

"I think the festival started a bit earlier than you said," Arno remarked.

"Maybe so," Bellec said. "No matter, it's got a lot longer to go."

"I heard even Americans are going to be attending," Paul said.

"Any names we know?" Arno asked.

"Some guy named...John Paul Jones, I think. Another named Thomas...Paine?"

"Dammit, look at that crowd," Bellec said. "Seating is going to be a nightmare."

Arno had never seen anything like this. Makeshift stands had been set up for thousands of people. What a tremendous amount of work this must have taken! It was an ironic way to celebrate a revolution instigated by decadence and overspending.

"We might have to split up, might not be able to find four seats together. We'll just have to meet up back at the cottage."

That was fine with Arno. There was not much of a reason to stick together if all they were doing was gathering information. Striking out amidst a crowd like this would be suicide.

Arno knew the Ancien Régime must have been terrified. So many people were out celebrating their losses, and even the king himself was going along with it.

They walked among the benches, looking for empty spots. A small opening became apparent. "Arno, Joseph, you're big boys. I trust you to handle yourselves. I'll take this spot and babysit Paulou."

The two took their place. Joseph and Arno kept walking. The crowd was diverse. Rich old fops sat within arms length of straw-hatted farm-wives. The whole festival certainly packed a symbolic punch.

Arno saw two empty spots ahead. The nearer would be put him next a fat, pimply noble, the more distant would put him next to a beautiful red-haired young woman.

"Take this one, I see another one ahead," Arno said to Joseph. The man was married, he certainly had nothing to lose.

Joseph took his seat and Arno continued forward. He would play it cool, keep most of his focus on the stage, as Bellec would want. But he would make an introduction when the time was right.

He sat.


	24. Feast and Be Merry (1790)

"A feast shall now be held in the gardens of the Château de La Muette!" shouted a man in a red coat to the crowd. "All are welcome to attend!"

"Well!" Arno said to the lady beside him. "I'm certainly hungry. Shall we go, Madame?" He had not talked to her much during the procession, but she had secretly been occupying the lion's share of his thoughts.

"I'm certainly up for it," she said.

Arno rose. "I never got your name."

"Élise," she said. "Élise de la Caen." She gave a pleasant smile.

"A pleasure to meet you."

"What about yours?"

"Arno. Arno Dorian."

"Well, let's go then."

Parting with the rest of the crowd, they walked down the crowded stands. Arno was not exactly sure where the Château de le Muette was, but he would follow the others. His head was dancing with how far he could go with this woman. It was so far, so good. Though the Assassins were weary of marrying outside the Order, they obviously had to make exceptions now and then.

They headed for the bridge across the Seine river, which glinted beautifully under the summer sun.

"Never thought I would see so many big names in one day," Arno said.

"You think the king was being sincere?"

"Not in the slightest," Arno said.

Élise laughed a little. "I suppose you're probably right. Doesn't matter though. _He_ serves _the people_ now."

Those were beautiful words, but his spirits darkened as he remembered the Templars had their tentacles in all of this. How fortunate she was to not have a life weighed down in war and politics.

"So did you grow up here, in Paris?" Arno asked as they re-entered the city.

"No, Normandy. I -" She stopped herself. "My family, we came here over a year ago."

_Normandy_, that reminded Arno of the grim fate of the previous wave of Assassins.

Then she asked, "What about you?"

Arno had prepared all the lies and obscurities he might need to tell beforehand. "I came up from the south, actually. My family owns a farm outside of Orléans." They were both new to the city, but fact she had been in Paris a year meant a lot. So much had happened over that time.

"Do you...like Paris?" he asked.

"I suppose it has its charm. I grew up in the country. A lot less noisy and crowded."

Arno could relate. His was happy at their conversation so far.

The tight confines of the city were making way for open air again. He could hear music. This must have been the château.

So much had changed in so little time. A year ago, progressives cowered in the shadow of the Ancien R_é_gime. Now the script had flipped. Outwardly it was peaceful and joyous, but the nobles, the holymen, and the king all must have secretly seethed.

An endless row of buffet tables had been set up. Others were already helping themselves. Roasts, casseroles, stews, all sat steaming and waiting.

"Shall we?"

"Most certainly."

They approached, took plates from a stack. Arno soon found a juicy beef and a tongful of sauteed green string beans to his liking, with a glass of white wine.

Seating was not immediately obvious. Many guests were standing. There was some space on the stairs of the chateau. They decided to sit there, wedging themselves finding themselves between an old nobleman in green and young man in a belt-buckle hat.

Arno looked at Élise's meal. Keesh and lentils, but she shared his taste in wine. He took a sip and then placed his glass on a stone step. It was not often he got to enjoy himself like this.

But seeing Bellec among the crowd Arno constricted inside. He could not forget he did not come here to have fun. He was here to collect information. He thought about how to approach this.

"So...this...city. What's the most...interesting thing you've seen here?"

"That's a strange question."

Arno started to worry a bit, until he realized she was giving the question some serious thought.

"I've seen a lot...I was there when they stormed the Bastille, when the women marched on Versailles..."

"You're...into politics, I take it?" Maybe she would be a good source of information after all, though Arno hated to think of her as a tool.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Do you know any Masons?"

"I've met a few, actually." Arno did not even need to include the word 'Free' for her to who he was talking about. She really was an opportune source, for better or worse. "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, I just...find them interesting."

His previous mirth had considerably faded.


	25. What Did I Say? (1790)

Their hands and stride locked together, their chemistry through the night had been sublime. He was confident this woman could be his future wife. She was intelligent and very well-read. She had ventured the tomes of Plutarch, Rosseau, and Voltaire. Between her rich literary life and experiences in the city during this pivotal period, their conversations had been fascinating.

"So you said you live here in the city. Where do you live, exactly?"

She stopped dancing. She stared at Arno, mute. There was silence. He knew he had tripped a wire of some kind, but how-

She released her grip on his hand. Then she turned, lifted her dress slightly, and began dashing away.

Arno looked on with hurt and astonishment.

"Elise, wait, I -"

Arno's heart sunk into the pit of his stomach. Was that an improper question? How?

He jumped as he heard Pierre's voice.

"Pisspot, you learned anything?"

He turned to the bearded man.

"I...no."

Arno had avoided prying too hard to not arouse suspicion, but it had been all for naught. Two failures in a single night.

But Bellec was surprisingly forgiving. "Well, I think what I said before stands. Mirabeau's going to be our main man. That Mason rat has the ear of the king. I think he may even be using the Apple."


	26. Autumnal Intelligence (1790)

The city had changed a lot since they had arrived. A paper called _L'Ami du people _was circulating, calling for radical violence, the fleur-de-lys flag had been replaced with a sturdier looking red-white-and-blue tricolor banner, and the nobles had lost control of the courts. Though famine was fading, revolutionary spirit was as fiery as ever. Even neighboring Belgium had been inspired according to the news.

"Are you sure we shouldn't just give up on Mirabeau? We've been at this half a year," Arno said. They stood in Le Marais on a crisp autumn noon.

"He's got the king's ear. No one's a more worthy - That's him, pisspot! The courier!"

The man they had been waiting for. Orange coat and tri-corner hat, face gruff from a few days without shaving.

"Alright, then." He lifted his hood and parted from his superior.

While trying to keep a low profile, he put as much power into his stride as possible without breaking into a run, to catch up.

Dorian tried to look closely at the man's attire. Where he had pockets would mean everything. Not just for Arno, but it also would determine whether the man himself could keep his life. If Arno could nab the letter without the courier noticing, the courier would live. His coat did have pockets facing backwards, which was a good sign, but he likely had pockets inside his coat as well. Arno had intercepted a couple of letters in Orléans. With luck, this would be more like the first time.

They had tried many things to get at Mirabeau. His full title was Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau, but the locals usually knew him as Mirabeau. He was a well-liked man, and a very skilled orator, in a city filled with hate mongers and fanatics. Arno preferred to kill the sparsely loved, but the people's affections gave Honoré Gabriel all the more soft-power. He was also a war veteran who wrote erotic poetry, for whatever that was worth; At least that is what Arno had heard from a drunk at the _Deux Rios_ tavern.

A horse drawn carriage sped past them, its passengers obviously in a hurry, wooden wheels clacking against the street.

The Assassin was now almost certain the Square Du Temple was the courier's destination.

Arno nearly crashed into an aproned smith perpendicular to him. He said an apology but did not break his stride or his focus

Going after Mirabeau for all these years had led to the quad's share of misadventures. Joseph had tried to talk to Bellec about pursuing other targets on Uncle Augustin's list: Étienne Clavière, Jacques Roux, Maximilien Robespierre, but Bellec had a persistence about him. Bellec was a very different man from Arno's last master.

And then the Assassin and his target were walking along the outer wall surrounding the large, gothic looking fortress at the Square Du Temple: an old Templar fort according to Bellec. Ahead Arno could see some soldiers guarding one of the entry points. Was that who the courier would collect the messages from? The Assassin decided to sit down on the nearest bench, placing himself between a woman in a forest green dress and a burly man with a shaved head.

He was not close enough to hear the conversation, thanks in part of the bustle of the streets, but he knew that was not the important part. He could see his orange-coated messenger talking to the soldiers. They summoned an officer, who handed the courier a sealed letter.

The man put in the letter inside his coat. Arno's heart sunk. This made his job much harder. But at least he did not button his coat. It could have been a lot worse.

But the Assassin got up, it was his duty to rise to this challenge and danger. He began following again.

Most likely his prey's destination was Mirabeau's manor. Arno was also fairly certain he knew what path the messenger would take. There would be no secluded part of the journey, unfortunately. Dorian's decision of when to strike would be largely a gamble, and dependent almost entirely on the number of guards and witnesses.

Three guards were on his horizon right now, and quite a few civilians: not a good time.

As he looked at the man whose life he would end, Arno wondered how much he knew. Was he just a hired hand? An errand boy? Or did he know of the Assassin-Templar War?

What of the fortress? How many modern Templars worked there? It would be extremely ironic if the Square Du Temple did not seat any Templars, and certainly poetic if it did: like a man sitting in disguise at his own funeral.

The whole country was former home of the Templars, in fact. The Assassins were born all the why in far off Syria, an sect of Mohammedans. How things had changed since then.

Then there no guards in sight, and just a few civilians ahead of him ahead of him: rich and frilly like so many others in the district. He even saw a vinegarden in an alley to climb. Arno shoved aside his humanity and began the iconic, dirty part of his work.

He tapped the poor messenger on the shoulder. The messenger turned.

"Ouias?"

In a choreographed algorithm, Arno grabbed the letter baring side of the man's coat and punched him in the stomach with his hidden blade, then grabbed the letter just before the poor sod fell to the ground.

The witnesses ahead looked on with shock, an expression Arno was very familiar with. The Assassin bolted towards the nearest alley.

He began scaling his way up the white wooden planks. "He went that way!" someone from behind called to the guards. "Down the alley!"

He made it to the top, the world of slants and shingles, a world any Assassin was familiar with.

He sat himself down behind a protruding window to be as invisible was possible to anyone who might be on the rooftops. His heart still pounded, but he believed he made a clean escape. He could still hear the commotion below. The gullible guards passed his point of ascension, running down the subsequent ally. Almost a millennium since its inception, the Assassin Order still made the authorities look a fool.

More morbidly, he could hear two of his witnesses trying to provide amateur medical aid to his victim. The courier might live, or might die, but death was more utilitarian since he had seen Arno's face.

A cool autumn breeze blew past him.

Getting back down was another task. He would have to wait a long time for the excitement he had caused to blow over, or rather dissipate into the greater city. He decided read the letter as he waited. His first mentor had disapproved of such behavior, enthused with the idea of guarding secrets, but Pierre Bellec spoke the value of gaining an impromptu advantage through intelligence. Arno would take it was an excuse to sate his curiosity. He opened the sealed envelope, pulling out the message intended for his mortal enemy:

_I don't know what these fools were thinking, appointing G as the new Grand Master. His orders have to cross an ocean before they are received here. T_ _seems to think it has something to do with putting him out of reach of W's people, to avoid him meeting the same fate as F. Stupid justification, given it was a betrayal by Frenchmen amongst the most loyal of our own ranks which killed Grand Master F to begin with.  
_

_But what's done is done. I'll continue to campaign for your appointment as President of the Assembly. Without our toy, it's going to be more difficult than normal, obviously. We'll have to win over minds the old fashion way. _

_We have foreign enemies to contend to as well. Rumors are abound about secret meetings between the monarchs of Europe, oriented to erase what we have accomplished, and that King Louis may even be inviting foreign intervention. Your diplomatic skills would be more valuable than ever in dissuading the king from such actions._

_-PC_

The Templars were smart enough to censor some of their language. It did not expose any of Mirabeau's vulnerabilities, but it was definitely important content. Bellec would be interested.


	27. Alliance (1791)

A very light snow was falling. Arno knew it was not going to stick. It might be the last snow until next winter. It was almost a year since they started chasing Mirabeau. Some glimmer of hope always kept them on the trail. In the in term, he had been appointed President of the Assembly. Arno did not know exactly what that meant, but it obviously it was bad for the Assassins. Maybe that was proof Bellec had picked the right target, but it made it all the more shameful they had not put a knife in his neck yet.

But a much more solid opportunity manifested now.

A week ago they had received a letter, left at their cottage, telling them to meet some kind of informant in the sewers, with precious information about the man they sought. It was unsettling an outside party even knew of their quest, much less where to find them, but perhaps this was the finally boost they needed.

Of course, they were not naive to the possibility of an ambush. That is why Paul accompanied Arno. Bellec and Joseph stayed back to guard the cottage.

Arno descended the stairs down to the river bank. The entrance to the sewers, the one he was supposed to use, was nearby. His boots squished mud. It was a very humble path towards (hopefully) very precious information.

He approached the entrance, and smelled it too. Arno had been basements, catacombs, and dungeons before, but he had never been in a sewer. He gave one quick glance around to see if anyone was looking on, then entered.

It was an ovular brick tunnel, dark and ominous looking, with a lantern crudely attached to the wall, from which a small stream of smelly water flowed through. As he proceeded, Arno kept his boots on either side of the stream, both to minimize sound, and minimize the stink on his boots. He unsheathed his pistol and kept his mind on his hidden blades as well. He heard his younger partner do the same behind them. According to his instructions, they would be just after the rightward turn. He saw the curve ahead.

Boot against brick, he mentally prepared for combat. If this place was half as threatening as it looked, they were in for a real fight.

As he got close to the turn, he heard voices. He motioned Paul to stop. "I'm telling you, they're not going to come." The accent was foreign: Austrian? Swiss? "Their kind are far too cautious."

"Patience is a virtue, Johann," a Frenchman responded. "These Assassin's are experts at their craft. Using them to our ends is eminently wise."

They knew of the Assassin Order. That was disquieting. But at least it sounded like their intentions were sincere. He proceeded around the turn.

Three men were standing on one of two slightly elevated platforms flanking path of the stream.

"Ah! You see, mon aime? There they are!"

The Frenchman wore a funny striped coat, white cravat, and powdered wig. This was a funny place to meet someone in such high-class attire. He had his right hand in his coat-pocket. Two others stood armed, pistols in hand.

Arno elevated himself upon the platform.

"Sorry I wasn't hastier. You said you had something for us?"

"Yes. I know your kind would like to see the end of Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau. My associates share this desire."

The Assassin knew there was no point in asking who those were.

"How can you help us?"

"We have some...inside information."

The Frenchman turned his head. "Cosimo! La mappa!" His right hand had still not left his coat. Was he concealing another weapon?

Cosimo handed Arno a role of paper. Arno unrolled it. It looked like a detailed map of a building's interior, some notes on the bottom right corner of the page.

"And this is...?"

"Your chance to strike Mirabeau. The man has a shipment of wine and spices, arriving from Spain, coming to his home on the second of April. This detailed map should tell you all you need to know to navigate the manor. "

Whoever this was, he must have been close to Gabriel to know so much about him.

"You expect me to...stow away on board the carriage?"

"You Assassins are crafty. I leave details up to you."


	28. Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau(1791)

A/N: *sigh* I know this little heart to heart seems especially awkward here. I've tried to integrate final words/confessions/memory corridors/whatever conversations as believably as possible, but this one was hard to do. When I started this story, I considered putting the "confessions" in their own little subsection, corridoned off by horizontal lines, but I figured that would be too jarring. I considered leaving out the "confession" entirely in this chapter, but ultimately those seem too important to Assassin's Creed.

Also, if you are wondering why the title looks funny, that's because there's a character limit for the chapter title.

* * *

Riding under a clothing covering, crouching between barrels of wine and over a sack of New World spice, Arno had heard much banter between the driver and whoever sat next him during the ride through Paris. Jean and Charles were their names, two fair-haired young men looking about Arno's age, maybe a few years older. He had only got a brief glimpse of them before sneaking into the cart at the outer rim of the city, but he was learning their voices and personalities well.

"I'm telling you, this all worries me," the man in the passenger seat, Charles, said. "The state taking The Church's silver and melting it down? God's wrath is coming."

"God wasn't so kind to us before all this, now was He?"

"Don't talk like that, Jean! It was human decision that brought our nation into debt! A decadent and warmongering royalty!"

"Eh, tout ce que. Silver, isn't that mammon or something?"

"In tribute to man, maybe. Not to God."

"The Church has always been in it for themselves, anyway. God's just their mascot. A fancy sliver cross' not much different from a fancy silver watch."

An interesting perspective, but Dorian had more pressing matters to think on. Mirabeau's life was at least within their grasp. It could not be much further. Almost a year of planning and pursuit, and Arno was about to make it happen.

The streets bustled outside, unaware of the true contents of this wagon.

Then the wagon stopped. The thrill of an approaching assassination began flowing through his veins.

A presumed gate guard spoke. "Shipment from Spain, right? Jean? Charles?"

"Ouias, that's us! Let us through!"

The large iron gates creaked opened.

The horses clopped a short way in before stopping.

"Monsieur Riquieti! We got your drink and spices!"

"Splendid, gars! Splendid!" It sounded like he was out on his front balcony. "Leave it out back, by the cellar door. I'll have your payment tout suite!"

Perfect. Things were going exactly as he expected. If Mirabeau was presenting the payment personally, that would be an opportune time for the kill.

The wheel clacked along the cobble stone of the yard. The most obvious means of assassination was to pop out from behind the cloth covering and fire his pistol. From there, escape should be little trouble. He had scouted the area surrounding the mansion three times.

Arno could feel the wagon turn. They would likely stop out back, near the entrance to Mirabeau's wine cellar. If Mirabeau did not present himself, Dorian would have to infiltrate the mansion: a much more arduous feat.

The vehicle stopped, and the Assassin unholstered his pistol, the tool of fate, the maker of his target's last day.

Somewhere inside his fancy palace, Gabriel Riquieti, Comte de Mirabeau, was gathering his coins. Or rather, he had probably finished collecting and was coming down the stairs right now. From his balcony to his bedroom to the upper hall to his stairs. Gabriel, of course, did not realize the gravity of this hour. Nor did Jean and Charles.

The back door creaked open. Someone stepped out.

"Good work, boys! So we agreed to-"

Arno popped out, into the opened spring air. There was his target: dark coat, powdered wig, round belly, buckled shoes. He fired.

The gun bucked and roared, and ripped a hole through his coat.

But the portly noble still stood. Arno was not satisfied with the angle of impact.

He had to make this count. He was not going to come back here any time soon. The Assassin launched himself, and pounced upon Gabriel Riquieti. His rotund form fell hard against the stone, before the Assassin thrust his blade into his flesh.

"Putain de merde!" the driver cried. "Gardes! Gardes!" The horses brayed and recoiled before running off wildly.

A man on top of high society was now bleeding on the ground, a young, gruff twenty-two year old standing over him.

"So it's done," Mirabeau said, almost resignedly. "I knew even the voices of sobriety and moderation would be doomed in these mad times." He winced and inhaled and exhaled heavily. "Who are you, pray tell? Assassin, or Illuminatus?"

"Illuminatus?"

"Assassin, then. Have you no thoughts beyond your five-century old grudges?"

"We don't fight for revenge, we fight for the freedom of mankind."

"Strange way of doing it, _boy."_ He winced and breathed hard._ "Y_ou sound just like _them_."

"Them?"

"Have you not heard the hateful words of Marat? The fanaticism of Robespierre? Some people here are thirsty for blood. Yet they dress up their blind rage in noble terms: liberté, égalité...fraternité. They are not so different from you." He looked to the side and coughed a few times.

"Robespierre is one of yours," Dorian said angrily, recalling that he had heard Joseph speak the name. Why was this old fool moralizing so much?

"_Was_ one of ours. I've always been a voice of reason, a voice of sobre...sobriety...and...and a liaison between the reactionary and the revolutionary. I've held rivers of blood at bay. You'll see that soon e...soon enough."

His muscles relaxed, as he met final rest.


	29. Old Friends (1791)

It was several hours since the Assassin had escaped Mirabeau's manor. His work often lent itself to such: hours of hiding and carefully planned movement to escape the radius of excitement. He was at last back in Le Quartier Latin. He was very hungry and thirsty now, eager to return the hospitality of their cottage. Surely he would have a warm welcome from his fellows. They would probably have an evening of revelry. Arno could already taste the ale.

He had stirred on the old man's last words at first, but had deemed to push them out of his mind: it was easy to get swept up into non-sense in such a monumental moment. Everyone wanted to justify his existence.

Though he did wonder what an Illuminatus was.

Their quaint little home came into view. No one was outside.

A crow perched on the front yard's stone wall flew away as he approached. He opened the front door.

What he saw shocked him: the bloodied bodies of Bellec and Joseph! Bellec was face down, and Joseph slumped against the kitchen cabinet with a knife in his throat.

He stood, frozen. His breaths became shallow as a puddle.

Was the killer still about?

He put his hand on his sword hilt and slowly, very softly stepped in. He looked to his right. His eye caught the body of Paul, crumbled down next to the book shelf. And a woman with a gun pointed at his head! A woman he knew, now in much more practical and masculine clothing! Frozen, he looked into those icy blue eyes. Once beautiful, the angel had revealed herself to be a demon.

"You...you from the festival...You killed them!"

And now she would kill him? Send a musket ball crashing through his skull and into his brain, splattering viscera all over the floor in a gruesome end to the life of Arno Dorian?

"You're not Robespierre, are you? But no, I didn't kill any of them."

"Why should I believe you?" Arno growled. His heart pounded frantically as he stared down the barrel of the weapon. These might be his last moments, but he would suffer them with some dignity.

"I'm flattered you think I'm capable. Three Assassins, all by my lonesome?"

She had a point. Arno's aggressive instincts mellowed a little. It is also likely if she were hostile, she would have also killed him by now. But he was still full of a torrent of aggressive emotions.

"Then who did?"

And, less pressingly, how did she know of their Order?

"Have you heard of a man named Maximellien Robespierre? He was in the area, in the company of foreigners. I came here to track him down. I think he may have had something to do with this."

'Foreigners,' that word hit Arno like a brick.

"I met a Frenchman in the sewers before I - he wore a striped coat and powdered wig. He was a with a couple of étrangers. One named Johan, and named...Cosimo, if I recall."

She lowered her pistol, her expression softened. For a flash he remembered the woman he met in July.

"Mon Dieu..." Their hostilities had all but seeped away. "Was anyone else there? Jean-Paul Marat? Antoine Momoro?"

"No, just those three."

Her musket was now lowered all the way to her side. The adversarial air between them was now completely gone. She looked deep in worry and thought.

Finally she asked, "What else do you know?"

"Nothing...though they gave me this."

He walked over to the table where he had rested the map, next to the couch where he had last studied it. He remembered joking with Joseph as he studied it once last time before leaving to kill Gabriel Riqueti. He grabbed it, and handed it to Élise.

She holstered her pistol and took it with two hands. For a brief moment he considered turning the tables, but quickly dismissed the thought.

"A lot of things are starting to make sense..." she said, words parting from those soft pink lips he had gazed into so many times that summer night.

With all the hostility drained, Arno was full of crazy feelings. Half of him wanted to hug her and weep.

"To you, not to me," Arno said. "Why are you here? How did you know about...us, all this?

She rolled up the parchment.

"It seems we have a common enemy," she said, now brisk and serious again.

Arno's hostility, in a small measure, returned. "I've heard that before, from the men you say killed my brothers. Tell me who you are!"

"You know who I am. Élise-Emma de la Caen."

"But who do you work for?"

"What makes you think I work for anyone?"

"I-"

Arno was frustrated.

"Would you rather I give you information, or help you track down the men who killed your friends?"

He was silent. Trusting mysterious strangers was what got him here.

But what did he have to lose, now?

"Fine."

"Come on, then. We can't waste any time."

She headed for the other door. Her mannerisms had hardened again just as quickly as they had softened. Arno gave the dead one last look. Paul wore his hidden-blade, but it was bloodied, as if he had stabbed his assailant. Yet there was no blood nearby that did not seem to radiate from his body. There was a hole in his throat, like Arno had inflicted upon his enemies with the same weapon.

That was very strange. It seemed to point to suicide. Could it really be?

He looked again at the other two. Joseph's body was slumped against the kitchen cabinet. Their steak knife was embedded in his throat.

Bellec's body faced the ground. He had a bloody hole in his back: Perhaps it was an exit wound, but-

"Arno?"

"Right, coming."


End file.
